


Sneak Up on Me (But Not Like That)

by Averia



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dick Grayson Whump, Established Relationship, Heartbreak, Hudson University, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27226387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Averia/pseuds/Averia
Summary: Dick stubbornly conceals his identity from Slade. Turns out that wasn't the best decision to make.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 282
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	Sneak Up on Me (But Not Like That)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Identity Crisis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633307) by [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking). 



> Where to start? Hmm… This story has been on the backburner for a while now. I really enjoyed the premise of Q’s fic and, of course, the story in itself too! The prompt was the perfect excuse to finally finish the fic and clean it up. :D
> 
>  **Day 3:** Arranged Marriage | **Bounty on Robin** (s) | Slavery

It was a faint sound, so faint, in fact, that for a moment, Slade wasn't sure wherever he had heard anything at all.

"Sneaking up on me? Again?" he asked, voice falling into a deeper timbre without prompting. It was as if every ounce of control he valued so much left every time the young hero appeared. 

A laugh echoed across the roof, light and warm, and soon enough Nightwing snuggled up against his back, his arms thrown around his waist.

"Practice," Nightwing murmured, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. "You like that I'm trying."

He did. Every night, every time he stood on a rooftop in Gotham or New York, it was all he waited for. Even more impressive that Nightwing was getting nearer and nearer with every try.

"How about," Nightwing made a thoughtful sound, rising on tiptoes to whisper into his ear, breath not touching him through the Kevlar but vibrations caressing his skin nonetheless, "next time you try to sneak up on me?"

"Is that supposed to be difficult?" Slade mocked, tilting his head back - not that he could see anything with his eye missing. The damned vigilante always exploited his blind spot.

"I'm a world-class hero. Of course, it's supposed to be difficult," was the slightly indignant answer, though the underlying amusement stayed barely hidden.

Nightwing nudged him, not unlike a bothersome pet, that wanted cuddles, and Slade uncrossed his arms, not surprised when a mob of black hair pushed through the space created. Raven strands ruffled, Nightwing's smile looked even more boyish.

"Missed you," the young man sing-song-ed, and Slade's hand curled around the narrow waist, other pulling his mask up just far enough to rest over his nose.

Underneath his, Nightwing's lips felt harsh, chapped as they were from the night wind, from running and flying and fighting. If he had his way, they would grow smooth, puffy, and red soon enough while his fingers explored the bruises Nightwing had earned during his week-long absence.

"Alright, little bird,” he murmured against his chin, a smile pulling at his lips as soon as he was able to gaze at the white lenses again. “If that’s what you want, I'll sneak up on you next time," he continued, amused, thumb brushing along Nightwing's cheekbone - the edge of the blue mask. The weight of Nightwing's hidden gaze felt like an imprint on his skin, and his fingertip carved underneath the thin strip of blue, glue slowly separating from tanned skin. 

"You know I can't."

Still, Nightwing didn't move, trusted him so foolishly - and yet, Slade was the biggest fool of them all. He shouldn't care, not about Nightwing's identity, and especially not about Nightwing's privacy. Prying Nightwing in all its golden and blue glory off the young hero to reveal the person underneath should have been his goal from the very start.

"You know what else I know?" Slade asked, thumb still pressed against his skin. There was a spark in the boy - an indomitable will that appeared out of the sunshine Nightwing embodied in a flash if provoked. It had cut deeper than the scythe of a reaper - had taken his soul, his mind, his heart before Slade had even thought about getting his guard up.

Letting the young hero slip away would tear him apart.

"What do you know?" Nightwing brushed their noses together, voice smooth, caressing, playful.

"That you have a new safe house near," Slade replied, "One I haven't been invited to yet."

⚔️

"It'll be fun," Bea coaxed him, "Promise."

Dick shouldn't. Partying with his civilian friends always turned into a disaster, even more so than with the Titans - which was arguably surprising and at the same time not. Hudson U was still very close to Gotham, after all.

"Alright," he gave in, grimacing when he thought about the last days. Their missions had been disasters between Brother Blood and HIVE acting up again. "I might need to have a little fun … once in a while."

"Oh yes, you do," Bea chuckled, and the others hollered their approval. Dick grinned when Lori ruffled through his hair with a wink. "And no excuses! You hear me, Grayson?"

"Yeah! If I get yet another message on my phone that says _'Hey, this is Dick. Sorry, I won't make it._ ' I'll find you and drag you to the party by my damn self," Lori yelled after him as he began walking away. He held his folder up as a shield, laughing.

"How could I ever disappoint the two of you?"

College had been a god sent for his non-hero social life. Being the youngest in his class and graduating far too soon from High School hadn't exactly endeared him to his ex-classmates in later years, no matter that they had liked him in the beginning. At Hudson U people didn't care… yet.

If Bruce found out he was about to let patrol slide to party in a club, he would never hear the end of it.

Luckily, Bruce didn't.

Sadly, he never arrived at the Club either.

Awareness returned slowly, sluggishly. A clinking sound reached his ears, annoying in its consistency no matter how rhythmic. The pressure around his wrists and the coldness underneath his cheek stopped him from simply standing up. And the more he concentrated, the more familiar the clinking became. Metal against metal. A sharp whistling. _Jackknife._

Considering the cold smoothness, he was lying on ceramic tiles. His hands were tied behind his back, cord cutting into his skin. When he curled his fingers, the tips felt numb. He had been tied up for a while. Maybe an hour.

Carefully, he opened his eyes just far enough for a sliver of light to flood his vision that was still streaked by his eyelashes. Whoever had gotten him was good. He had been on the way to his dorm, content enough to let his guard down for the simple two-minute walk, and then, _nothing_.

Just as slow as before he opened his eyes a little more, hoping the strands of hair falling into his face would be enough to conceal their half-opened state. Once the haziness lifted from his vision, Dick caught sight of boots that seemed vaguely familiar, then all he could see was black and orange.

He sucked in a breath. The normally so quiet sound bounced loudly off the tiled walls. His heart jumped in his chest, eyes growing wide before he could control his instincts.

The jackknife pulled together. Slade tilted his head. Of course. _Of course_. Slade could hear his heartbeat, the hitch in his breathing. Dick tried to relax, tried to get his rib crashing heartbeat under control. All the while knowing that it was far too late.

Silence followed; a silence that was so oppressive Dick nearly hyperventilated. His mind tumbling over itself as it frantically searched for a solution.

_Play dead. Play dead. Play dead. Bruce will kill you. Slade will kill you._

A shadow descended over him, air caressing his face, and Dick tried to keep as pliant as possible, breath slow. After a moment of consideration, Slade stood back up, and Dick didn't dare open his eyes again.

Anther clink - this one dull - followed, and Dick's shoulders tensed. The heavy steps returned. 

Dick had caught sight of a door between the part of the room Slade had been sitting in and the tiled area he was lying on. If he timed it right, he could probably escape or at least face Slade properly. 

The second he deemed Slade close enough, he rushed up - ignored the drug already tilting his vision, ignored how his legs tried to give in under the sudden weight. Slade caught him by the scruff of his shirt, ripped him back, slammed him down - all in under a second.

His head snapped back, jaw connecting with the tiles. The pain spread, prickled up the side of his jaw. His tongue burned. His vision swam. Wetness stuck to his cheek when he rolled onto his side, base instincts trying to get him away from the danger.

Blood spluttered out of his mouth. His hazy vision caught sight of a man his age. Blood trailed down over his nose. 

No. 

_Had trailed._

A gaping red perfectly circular hole rested between his closed eyes. He knew him. Dick knew him!

Fingers rasped against his skull when his hair was gripped roughly, head pulled back so far it hurt.

"Slade," he rasped out, whimper turning his words unintelligible. "Slade it's-"

The hint of hesitation was gone too soon. There was no consideration for civilian life. Unlike Nightwing, Dick Grayson, some pampered rich kid, was nothing to Deathstroke.

The syringe pushed under his skin, into the artery at his neck. His mouth fell open, neck straining. It was thick. A cheap needle. This would bruise, eventually-- maybe. Tears spilled over his lashes.

"Ngh," he tried to speak when the syringe pulled out, eyes threatening to roll back into his head. And he tried again, tried to roll his tongue past the _N_ of his name so desperately it cramped. His body crumbled first; chin caught by the gloved hand Dick normally loved to feel against his skin. The bright white light behind Slade burned his eyes, the drug blowing his pupils impossibly wide before his eyes rolled back.

⚔️

Slade pulled his gun out of its holster, didn't look away from the bleeding drugged-out kid.

Soon the next heir would die, this time a shot through the heart. All of them would be distributed to their families by tomorrow morning. Grayson had been supposed to be the last one to die with a shot through the liver, delivered half-alive and suffocating on his own blood to Wayne, the only mercy given to him his unconsciousness.

He cocked his gun, the shot inaudible as the bullet ripped through the heart of Blüdhaven Harbor Electronics' youngest CEO. One of the five golden heirs the Gotham Gazette had featured as their main story only two weeks ago. Inciting his contractor enough to go after them.

Luthor was so painfully predictable sometimes.

Grayson had been the easiest to find, to abduct, not followed by bodyguards or private detectives of any kind even though he was number one on that list and adored in a way few people in Gotham were.

Slade holstered his gun, remained rooted to the spot.

"It's not you," he whispered, the words echoing back at him. Just as much as his name had echoed from blood-slick lips. He pulled his phone out to call Nightwing, never looking away from the slumped, bleeding figure in front of his steel-capped feet. 

The hero didn't answer.

Slowly, Slade crouched down beside the still form once more, brushed the trickle of blood from the corner of the kid's mouth, pulled his jaw open carefully. More blood dripped out. His tongue had swollen but it was still attached. He had time to figure this out. 

Probably.

The blue eyes hadn't looked so good either, one pupil expanded even wider than the other. Two drugs and a concussion could do that to a body. Even if Nightwing was truly Dick Grayson.

Dick... _Richard._ R. Was it simply coincidence? _Robin._ Richard. _Batman._ Bruce.

Ignoring what he might have done, he cut the cords around the bruised wrists. The half-curled hands were cold to the touch, and Slade looked back up at the slowly purple turning lips.

He remained on his knees, settling the limp hands back onto the tiles. He brushed through the blood-slick hair and probed at the tender edges of the wound. It didn't feel too bad given the circumstances. If Grayson was Nightwing, he would survive. 

The thought suited Slade just fine.

Another bout of hesitance overcame him, but ultimately, Slade cut open the long-ruined shirt, sucking in a breath at the scars he knew so well - had mapped out with his fingers and lips and teeth just a few nights ago.

Carefully, Slade cradled the nape of his neck in one hand, his other arm pushing beneath the limp hero's knees. Grayson remained wholly unresponsive as Slade rose with him.

Months ago, Nightwing had stumbled into one of the safehouses Slade had in New York, drugged out of his mind, and breaking down on his kitchen floor before the window had even fully closed. There had been no call for help. Slade had only heard the thump.

If only he had peeked beneath the mask that day.

His height. The broad shoulders. The narrow waist. The strong thighs. The pouty shape of his mouth. The slope of his nose. It fit. It all fit so clearly; Slade couldn't comprehend how he had failed to notice.

Time seemed to fly and yet standstill as he stood frozen in the middle of the bloodied room, all heir’s apart from one lining the walls. 

He sank back to the ground, for once not knowing what to do. The safehouse had only been made for holding, for fast cleaning. There wasn't even a pillow or a blanket anywhere. None of the heir's had been supposed to make it out alive anyway. 

He bedded Grayson against his shoulder, one arm curled around the lax body to keep him close, then he pulled his phone out again, this time to call Wintergreen.

"Tip the Bat off... No, now, Wintergreen. I want him crashing through the window right fucking now!"

⚔️

Dick gazed up at the white ceiling, the familiar hospital smell of Thompkins' clinic a comfort. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side only to be stopped by a firm hand on his cheek.

"Puse?" he tried to whisper _Bruce,_ and everything that came out was... well, whatever that had been. His tongue was still swollen. A brush through his hair later, Bruce appeared in his vision, concerned gaze sweeping over him.

Dick carefully pulled his arms out under the blanket, signing his next question in hopes it would make things clearer. All it did was form a splitting headache that made white stars explode in his vision. 

Bruce stilled his hands, pushed them back to his chest.

"Concussion. You bit your tongue, and Leslie had to flush the drugs out of your system," Bruce squeezed his hands. "You're going to be alright."

Dick smiled instead of nodding, felt a little dopey. He wasn't sure if Bruce was telling the truth or if there was something Bruce was keeping hidden, but whatever the aftereffects of his injuries and the drugs would be, they wouldn't hit him as hard as Slade.

His weak smile faltered.

Slade.

There had been others. Others who hadn't been lucky enough to know their killer. 

Dick had thought it was fine. Slade had a code. Slade was--Slade would never.

"Chum," Bruce whispered, and Dick only noticed the tears that were starting to cloud his vision then. A laugh escaped him. It dissolved into heaving chuckles all too soon. His tongue was too swollen, his head hurt too much, and his heart was too broken for a real laugh.

The killings had hit the news the second he had appeared half-dead in a hospital, so Dick wasn't surprised to see Bea and Lori argue their way into his room beside Babs and Alfred. 

He was glad to see them. He really was. He knew he had worried them far too much. 

They didn't let him apologize.

⚔️

Nightwing grinned at the red-headed girl, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter if he wasn't mistaken, and Slade was reminded again that he should have recognized that smile the second Mercy had shown him the very first picture of his high profile targets. He should have realized that the sunshine in Richard Grayson's eyes was mirrored on Nightwing's lips every time they met.

Slade didn't show himself, followed them through the crowd until it became too dangerous to stay, until those bright shining eyes he had almost never learned to know nearly found him in the crowd.

Part of him had hoped Nightwing would contact him, but the young hero hadn't, and it wouldn't be the first time that Slade would lose someone to his profession. He knew how to accept the decision, had done so when Lilian had hissed at him to leave and when Adeline had shot him without remorse.

Still, the need to tie things up, to at least speak with Nightwing again, didn't leave him no matter how far away missions brought him, so when Nightwing finally made his comeback, Deathstroke reappeared in the US as well.

His gaze wandered over the sleek silhouette. The brightly colored blue suit with golden accents was gone. In its stead, black fabric wound tightly around Nightwing's body. It was swallowed by the darkness, only the lines of blue reaching to a point in the middle of the broad chest remained a clear splash in the dark.

"Looking good, kid," Slade spoke, and Nightwing flinched violently, hand going to his Escrima. Deep in his chest, weakness half-buried, it hurt that they were back to this. It hurt that he had once more caused someone he cared for to nearly die, and this time, it had been his own damn hands streaked with blood.

Nightwing’s lips parted, then they closed again. "Kid?" was the mumbled reply, and it rang with a pain that Slade hadn't expected to hear.

"Little bird," Slade replied on instinct, some tentative hope making his fingertips prickle as he slowly stepped nearer, barely managing not to reach out. "I wasn't sure if you still wanted me to call you that."

Nightwing tilted his head, gaze stuck between them, but he didn't pull away to keep a safe distance between them.

"I'm not sure either."

Slade craved to pull him into his arms. It wasn’t enough to merely stand a step away from him. His gaze traced the mask. Black.

"If it helps, I'm sorry."

A huff and the white lenses stared up at him. The lips he loved to taste so much formed a wry grin.

"I know. I wouldn't still be standing if you weren't, but," Nightwing trailed off, head tilting towards the sunrise, "You aren't sorry for the others. I didn't only hear about what you did. I saw it. I felt it. You killed them like their lives meant nothing. You were about to kill me like I meant nothing."

The words left Nightwing breathless, curled around Slade’s skin like a rope.

"You've always known who I am. What I do. I've hunted you and your friends before," he said, words mechanical to his own ears. A justification but not.

Nightwing shook his head. Laugh escaping. " Yes and no. I've always known how you fight against heroes. Now, I also know how you treat civilians. The very people I swore to protect."

Slade said nothing, was trying and failing to make peace with the fact that Nightwing was slipping through his fingers, was pretty much gone.

"So, you won't try to sneak up on me anymore?"

Dick huffed, but there was pain behind that too. "You sneaked up on me like I wanted you to. Look how that ended."

Slade took in the way Nightwing stood, protecting his side, not quite facing him. It was over. 

"I will miss you, little bird,” Slade allowed himself to say, and his skin prickled when those simple words nearly made Nightwing cross the remaining distance between them. Maybe he could—Maybe there was a way— _MaybeMaybeMaybe._ “Your identity will be safe with me."

A lopsided grin appeared on Dick’s face, slightly twitchy. "Thank you, Slade. I... appreciate that."


End file.
